


A Minor, Silent Disturbance

by BoredomIsDeadly



Series: Dear Despair [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Gen, Kiran is a fucking weirdo, silent kiran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 06:55:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13898691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredomIsDeadly/pseuds/BoredomIsDeadly
Summary: Days are noisy. Nights are quiet. So Grima walks the castle during the night.





	A Minor, Silent Disturbance

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote more garbage

Silence echoes profoundly throughout the halls in the castle, accompanied only by the soft whispers of a gentle wind. It’s late into the cool night, and few would be caught wandering around at such an ungodly hour.

Almost everyone is sound asleep within their private quarters. What’s left are the watchmen and the patrollers, carrying out only their duty under orders.

Not for Grima, however. He finds nights like these quite pleasant. It lacks the presence of many of the other heroes who would unfailingly display some manner hostility towards him, along with the annoying, lively chatter and gossip that often drifted between halls to corners. But most of all the blessings of the night allowed him to completely avoid confronting a handful of individuals that he personally had a hand in ruining their future. With that came the added boon of keeping the other soul inside of him quiet and asleep as well.

Here he is undisturbed.

Grima remembers the sea of sand and the endless waves of prayers, the weight of an entire cult’s demand. He remembers a dark room and flashes of a madman, but not much else.

Yet destruction is the furthest thing from his mind right now. This isn’t Plega with the horde of worshippers so eager to be devoured and die. It’s a castle of unexpected silence. Grima is not alone in that there are other heroes with the same inclination to avoid social interactions like the plague, or operate almost on the same morality.

Time passes slowly in the castle walls. Grima stretches his arm as he turns another corner into a hallway, as quiet as the wisps of wind flirting with embers of fire. A window slows him to a stop, the stars above inviting him for a clear unobstructed view. The city beyond the walls below are speckered with little lights, and he cannot help but look out in a daze.

Grima would never admit that the only few feature of Askr that drew him to stay are the periods of long silence, the lack of pressure, and one irritating, speechless Summoner.

A loud scraping of wood on stone catches Grima attention. It’s abrupt and short, as if moved by accident. He turns around. Behind him was the door to the castle library, an archive of sorts on different all the different worlds the merry little gang had come in contact with. Intrigue on such matters never captured Grima, since he cannot find it within himself to care.

Although, if Embla was up to some suspicious activity… No one would say a thing if he helped himself to a meal or two, surely.

Eagerly he presses the already ajar door open, careful not to draw any attention to himself in the process. Orange glow from a lamp in the inside signalled some sort of activity, but upon closer approach he was only somewhat disappointed to find that the Summoner was in there. On the ground. Legs hoisted up only by the support of the wooden chair they must have been sitting on.

He laughs at the sight, his deep voice booming throughout the room.

The Summoner makes a surprised squeak, completely taken off-guard. There’s a little struggle when they try to get back up, but instead flop back onto the floor defeated before tilting their head backwards. The little _‘oh, it’s just you’_ expression does not escape Grima’s notice, and this irritated him.

“And here I was thinking a little Embla rat had snuck in. What a pity. Maybe I’ll devour you instead.” Grima mutters as he approached with even steps. Steps that seemed too un-humanlike.

The Summoner simply stare as they throw the notion of a retort down a drain, waving their hand limply in dismissal. They make no effort to get back up, all the while shrugging off the threat and intimidation radiating off the towering other. Grima glares, contemplating if he should stomp his foot through the mortal’s head at this perfect moment. It’s only the sheer lack of any real struggle on the Summoner’s part that puts him off the idea.

It’s at this point that Grima notices the items scattered on top of the table. Stacks of books - most of which on each world’s histories- scribbles on strewn papers, writing materials and… a bottle of alcohol that’s almost empty. Curiously, there is an empty arc shaped by the paper on its banks, leading down onto the floor towards the unmoving heap of undignified white robe.

Grima scoffs. “So, our good little Summoner has been boozing it up in the castle’s library. Hah. What a sight.” Grima’s sight settles on the messy writing on the stack of papers. There are words he could read, language that he and the other summoned ones share, and then there were the words he couldn’t. He sees a pattern to the language, but it was hardly decipherable at a glance.

It was a language from the Summoner’s world, or so the rumours went.

His eyes wander and latches on something he could read. One tiny snippet of a letter.

_I miss home, Aflonse._

An emotion sprung from within Grima, unpleasant. So he prods the Summoner with his foot. “How long are you going to play dead?”

That prompted the start of an ungraceful rise to the eventual fall of a half drunk Summoner plopping back down on their seat.  A moment passes as they grin cheekily at Grima, eyes glazed, swaying on their chair unable to hold steady.

Yet Grima almost snarls audibly when he catches it; an odd look of resignation on the drunken Summoner’s face, dragged far below the appearance of the mortal’s outwardly approach as soon as it rose.

Perhaps it was the fact that he now resides in a human vessel. Or because that other soul is stirring beneath the surface, gradually becoming awake. But Grima did not like this. Despair is often a intoxicating cocktail of panic and hopelessness. He should then find resignation a particularly palatable look, especially on one such as the Summoner, but something inside of him rioted against the notion. He makes the conscious decision to stay instead of walking in the other direction and out of the doorway.

The Summoner begins to scribble on one of the scattered papers, but Grima does not know if it was due to any reaction he might have displayed. The scribbles came quick, and they remove their arm to allow the other to see. The words are surprisingly legible to a degree. Sloppy, but readable.

_‘You are not asleep.’_

“I do as I please.” Grima says. He finds himself surprised at the words. “Still, how unexpected. Why are you not asleep like all the other worms?”

Encouraged by the question, the Summoner quickly writes a response.

_‘Are you curious, Mr. God?’_

“Impudent. Wiping you is a simple feat, mortal. Watch your words or I might end you.” Grima growls into his words. “But since you have suddenly gained the ability to converse, yes. Answer me.”

Spurred by the alcohol, the Summoner giggles uncharacteristically. They nod. Grima watches the way the Summoner sway on their chair, the words carefully chosen in that scattered mind. It’s a good moment later that the Summoner finally dips the quill in ink and settles on a response.

They pass the paper to Grima.

_‘Couldn’t sleep. Came here to be productive. Backfired. Then I tried to write my feelings out cause Alfonse said it’s healthy, but I’m burning that mess later. Also got a little drunk, as you can see.’_

“And alone. You have the worst misfortune to have encountered me all alone in your state. Hmph.” Grima scoffs, crossing his arms. “One wonders how you are even alive...”

They throw a shrug, returning to the paper and quill. Grima moves closer to the table to see the words.

_‘Why are you not asleep? Are you not tired?’_

“The nights are pleasant.” Grima admits. “Sleep and nourishment are not necessary for me, worm.”

The Summoner nods in acknowledgement. Stifling a yawn, they write. _‘I see. So, you’re not attacking me?’_

A silly looking grin hangs on their mouth, eyes looking at Grima expectantly.

“You certainly are the first to approach me alone with reckless abandon, knowing full well of what sort of creature I am. Your end shall come soon, and it will be an agonizing one, I promise you.”

 _‘But not now?’_ They ask through the paper, brows furrowed. _‘You could commit a perfect murder. I can’t scream loud enough to reach the living quarters.’_

“Hah. You? Scream? I am not so foolish that I would put myself at risk.” Grima replies with a sneer. “And your tribute reeks of alcohol. It is foul.”

Taken aback, the Summoner showed disbelief. They sniff their sleeves, too conscious. There’s a hint of disappointment too, as if to say Grima’s lack of murderous intent is somehow some sort of insult.

 _‘Ok. You don’t like alcohol. I’ll remember that.’_ They write, head drooping before bouncing back up with a gasp. _‘This repulsive human is going to clean up and call it a night before they let something disrespectful slip.’_

“Hmph. As always, I cannot tell if you are eager for death or not, mortal.” Grima says.

_‘You can decide.’_

Grima growls at the words. “I see a fool.”

Instead of writing another reply, the Summoner shrugs off the statement and proceeds to tidy up the mess of scattered paper and books. The size of the cleanup is only worth a few round trips at best, but it takes a tolerable amount of time for a half drunk, stumbling, wall and furniture-hugging Summoner to leave the books in the return tray. The rest of the papers- presumably for burning- they take with them.

Grima meanwhile, observes. The Summoner looks a few times during the cleanup in his direction for some indiscernible reason, but nothing comes out of it.

That other soul within him is well and wide awake for a good while now. Grima can feel confusion, the struggle to grasp an understanding on the current situation, but none of them say anything on the matter. It’s far too sour and strained that only a mutual connection of emotion remains.

Once done, the Summoner approaches Grima and throws a look. There is meaning, and a request in that action, but Grima hardly had any idea what it would be. That other soul would, but he says nothing.

Shaking their head in disappointment, the Summoner walks off with a meek wave. Stumbling over their own feet, it was back to the wall-hugging as they make their way back to their room, step by careful step.

Alone in the library, Grima is left undisturbed again.

Grima returns to his quiet walk, and shuts himself in his room before sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> im writing more garbage to this series. i havent given it a title yet. im hoping someone helps name it for me.


End file.
